The human brain is cunning, it acquires you to pain
It can get you used to anything, even not quite being sane
I’m used to feeling tired but not getting any sleep
I’m used to reaching thousands when I’m trying to count sheep
I’m used to leaving parties when anxiety attacks
I’m used to calling parents just to hear a voice speak back
After days of duvet cover, I’m used to tangling out my mane
And though I know I shouldn’t be, I’m kind of used to pain
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Truth be told there’s nothing deep about slit wrists and hanging feet. The depth lies in why it happened. The depth lies in the emotional pain that no one seems to take seriously until there is a physical sign of it.
I’ve Googled “how to make the hurt stop” more than once.
The world doesn’t seem to have an answer.
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I don’t think people take into account, not how hard it is to study or to work with depression, or even to function with it. But the effort and energy required to merely exist. To wake up in the morning and say “All I have to do today is breathe and make no attempt to try and stop and if the sun goes down today and I’m still breathing, then I have succeeded”.
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R300 for 100mg of Zoloft.
R100 for 2mg of Clonazepam.
And R600 for 400mg of Tegretol
Everything comes at a price…even my sanity.
on my fingers
on my braids
breathing over me in sleep so all my lighting fades
Stop humming in my eardrums
while I sleep
me I have no right to sadness due to keep
There’s someone else who wants you
I’m sure she’ll
I’m sure she’ll love the melancholic tugging on her hand
So if you’d be so kindly
My light you should not take
Go find some other lonely girl’s depression to awake
I keep a lot of notebooks. Throughout the years I’ve probably amassed more pieces of paper than I have conversations. Blank empty pages became easier for me to reveal myself to than the expectant faces surrounding me, so as I grew up I ended up with encyclopedias filled with my hopes, dreams and eventually sorrows.
Soft sheets of paper rather than other people my age became my friends. And to them I owe my life. Cause for some reason even if you’ve been writing for so long that your hand begins to ache and the ink in your pen runs dry, I’ve learnt that nothing makes you feel more heard than a blank sheet of paper.
I don’t really expect anything from this. I do not expect, nor do I want, comments, views or thousands of followers. My only interest is to reveal myself once more to this blank sheet of paper – as she does and always has accepted me in a way than no one else could ever compete with.